Riddle Me This
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Riddle me this - there's something odd about the Clairmont Masion. Could it be bats in the belfry, a jokester in the basement or something more sinister at work? Warnings - adult topic and violence


"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Clairmont Mansion. My name is Angela and you are with Tour Fifteen. Please remember your number as we may pass other tours and we don't want you following the wrong tour guide." She checked her clipboard and did a fast headcount. "Before we begin our tour, I must ask you to stay close and not lag behind. Construction of the house started in 1810 and continued nonstop over the next 46 years. Much of the mansion is still under repair and is not safe. There is also the chance that if you wander away, you may never find your way out again." Angela paused for laughter and murmured conversations. "Are we all set? No last minutes potty breaks? Excellent, then follow me."

Edward glared at the two chatty women to his left. It only stood to reason that he'd get chatterers. The brunette tour guide, Angela, stopped and indicated a photograph that was enlarged to poster size. The grainy texture revealed a woman standing before a window looking out upon an invisible scene. Her features were blurred and nearly indiscernible, but she appeared to be frowning. The tour guide placed a hand on the Plexiglas that protected the photos and waited while cameras snapped.

"Meet Estelle Clairmont. This picture was taken by a photographer who was hiding in her garden and it's only of a handful known to exist. The photographer was killed shortly after this was taken. After measuring the height of the window, it was calculated that she stood 6'4", tall enough to be considered a freak by the people of the 19th century." Angela suddenly coughed, and cleared her throat. "It's said that the ghost of Estelle attempted to strangle anyone who looked at her, a way to ensure her privacy even after death. So, if anyone of you suddenly feels lighted headed or gets a tickle in your throat, it may well be Estelle."

The little story had its desired effect and people first looked around the spacious room and then began to pull tighter into a group, all except a red-haired gentleman. He looked around as if bored.

"The Clairmont Mansion is considered one of the strangest structures in the United States, the East Coast version of the Winchester Mystery House. While it does share some oddities with that California historic landmark, the Clairmont Estate stands alone in many aspects. That house was built as a way for Sarah Winchester to cheat death. Estelle had no time for death; she was too busy cheating the living. Miss Sarah was a recluse by choice, but it would appear that Estelle became a recluse because she was terrified someone would try to kill her if she was to appear outside the walls of her mansion. It was a reasonable fear as she acquired many enemies in her lifetime."

There was a loud bang and everyone in the group jumped. "Sorry, as I say, restoration goes on. Mr. Lawrence Clairmont purchased three thousand acres from the Wayne family in 1808 as a wedding gift for his daughter, the sole heir of his fortune. Tragedy struck when the bridegroom apparently hanged himself the night before his marriage to Miss Estelle. Many of the papers of the time claimed it was because he could not bear being married to Miss Estelle, although why he didn't merely leave was anyone's speculation. She was rumored to be a person of ill temper and considerable violence. In Shakespeare's time, she would have been called a shrew, but today there are more appropriate words for her." Angela paused for the laughter, then continued. "She had a love of the number eleven, which you will see represented many times today. She was also very fond of Oscar Wilde and, likewise, you will see many of his quotes throughout the house today. And she loved animals. One animal in particular, the bat, was her favorite. She said it was how she made her decisions for stock buying. She had a cage of bats and would line the cage with the daily paper. She would then wait to see which stocks the bats would defecate upon and chose those. The bats, it would seem, had an uncanny success and Estelle reaped the benefits of the very wealthy and powerful. "

"Riddle me this," Edward said softly to himself. "Why is it that when a woman is accomplished in the world of business, she is considered a bitch when a man who is equally accomplished is considered a genius?" The woman in front of him hushed him rudely.

"After the death of her fiancé, there was a string of engagements, including that of Bruce Wayne, the great grandfather of our present-day Bruce Wayne. All engagements were broken off for one reason or another and in 1813, Estelle announced she had no plans to ever marry and took possession of the property that her father had purchased. He and his wife died shortly thereafter, under very suspicious circumstance, leaving the entirety of their fortune to Estelle."

At this point, Angela paused to stroke a scowling cherub. "This left Estelle a woman of independent means and she turned the money her father left her into a staggering fortune, leaving her estate second only to that of the Wayne Estate. This was something of a sticking point between her and the Waynes for years to come. That enabled her to build and furnish the mansion in her own peculiar style and taste."

Edward glanced around the room. There were stacks of stained glass windows, each one depicting a person being tortured. She was obviously a woman of singular taste.

"There are several theories as to her extraordinary building after that. The most predominant is that Estelle had made a pact with the devil himself in order to be rid of her parents and their matchmaking attempts, both which she found burdensome. She and the devil agreed that the day she finished the Mansion, he would claim her as his bride. It all sounds very fanciful, but remember that the Salem Witch Trials happened nearby and even a hundred years later, superstition persisted. People believed in the supernatural and used it to explain what could not be easily explained otherwise. Even Estelle herself was a staunch believer in the supernatural and had a practicing witch as part of her regular staff."

"She obviously believed in covering every angle," Edward muttered. "As do I."

"Another theory was appeasement of her guilty conscience. Her grandfather had made his fortune in the war, running a slave route from Haiti and back. He packed his galleon with captives, many of them dying before the ships landed, saving them from a life of servitude. It was thought that Estelle built to appease the souls of the slaves, who haunted her dreams and waking hours alike. She blamed the ghosts for killing or frightening away her suitors. That hardly seems a likely explanation either, as Estelle was rumored to be without fear, remorse or compassion for anything living or dead." Angela smiled and gestured to a door at the far end of the room. She tried to ignore the nagging crick in her neck.

"Whatever the reason, Estelle started to build with fervor, swearing that the only way the building stopped would be after her death. The result was Clairmont Mansion, a mass of twisting corridors, maze-like rooms, and nonsensical design. The more convoluted the better she liked it. She never slept in the same room two nights in a row and had the unfortunate habit and roamed the halls with a whip, ready to beat any worker who she didn't believe was working hard enough."

"Why did they stay?" a woman asked.

"She paid twice the usual wage and offered things that were unheard of back then, like paid vacations and sick leave. She had a staff of doctors on call and any sick or injured worker or their family could use them without incurring any cost. However, she demanded absolute loyalty and complete servitude in exchange. Now, does anyone have any questions before we head into the mansion itself...?"

Edward polished the gold earring in his right earlobe between two fingers for a moment. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and Angela smiled at him.

"Yes, sir? You have a question?"

"Exactly what did she do with all her money? Back in 1810, this must have cost a devil's ransom, there surely had to still be money left." There was a pause as if the tour guide wasn't sure how to approach this.

"When she died, her estate was reputed to be worth $72 million, not a paltry sum even by today's standards. There was a trust fund set up to continue the upkeep on the mansion, but the fund was nearly bankrupt by the early 1960's. Thomas Wayne, father of Bruce Wayne donated several thousands to keep us going."

"Reputed?" This was from another man.

"She didn't believe in banks and it was rumored that she kept her money in a private vault located somewhere on her estate. The mansion was severely damaged by fortune hunters after her death, but the supposed vault was never discovered. The Clairmont Restoration Society took over in the 30's and the restoration process has continued since then, but no trace of it has ever been found."

"How is that possible, madam?" This came from an elderly gentleman in the front of the crowd. Somehow he seemed vaguely familiar to Edward.

"Believe it or not, we are still discovering parts of the mansion. Estelle had a habit of constructing hidden rooms. Some were discovered and you'll see on today's tour, but others haven't. There's also a honeycomb of caves that run beneath the house. Estelle used them in part to construct the extensive basement of the mansion. Two years ago, a construction worker uncovered a wine cellar that had been undisturbed for over a century. The wine was valued in the millions. It was due to that discovery that we were able to raise money to continue with the present restoration of the mansion. If there are no further questions, I'll show you the place where we believe construction began."

The group started to move off, out of the narrow hall they'd been standing in for nearly ten minutes. It was just as well, for Edward didn't have that much time to waste, although this would probably be the most extensive job he'd ever contemplated and he anticipated an investment of time. If anyone was going to solve the riddle of the Clairmont Mansion, it would make sense that it would be done by Edward Nigma, aka the Riddle.

He paused as he passed the portrait and he grinned, his eyes taking on the air of one possessed. "Hello, Miss Estelle, I'll see you in Hell." The old man from the front looked back over his shoulder, and for an instant, Edward's smile dimmed as he swore a glimmer of recognition appeared in the old man's eyes. Then the old man looked quickly away, as if embarrassed to be caught in the act of staring. It was weird, but Edward didn't dwell on it. Instead, his grin returned and he followed after his party. After all, he couldn't afford to miss a single detail.

His arm curled slowly towards him, muscles screaming a protest against the lactic acid building up in them. Bruce Wayne ignored the pain just as he did many other aspects of his life. Instead he concentrated on pushing his muscles just a little further, forcing them to perform even after they had reached their limits. His life depended upon them every night and he couldn't take the chance that they might give out or lack the strength he needed at a crucial moment.

He felt the pressure of a hand on his lower back and he automatically straightened at the touch.

"Keep your back straight, Bruce," his personal trainer admonished, reaching out to cup a trembling forearm and help it forward. If he found it peculiar that the billionaire would spend a lot of money to build up a physique that was then hidden beneath a carefully-tailored wardrobe, he never made mention of it. Money bought a lot of loyalty. "C'mon, Bruce, you're not sweating enough. Two more sets."

The double-glass doors to the gym opened, but Wayne continued to struggle with the weight until the voice of his butler interrupted him.

"Pardon me, Master Bruce, but I believe we might have a bit of a problem."

A bit of a problem to Alfred could be something as minor as a plugged drain or as major as the collapse of the stock market. It was impossible to tell from the man's polished British-accented voice.

With relief, Bruce lowered the weight to the padded floor and wiped the sweat from his face with a damp towel.

"What can I do for you, Alfred?"

The way the butler shot a look at the personal trainer, then back, alerted him. Whatever Alfred needed to say required privacy and Bruce Wayne obliged.

"Nat, listen, why don't we call it quits for today?"

"You're not going to build up any endurance that way," Nat said. "You just don't push yourself enough." It was a standing joke between the two.

Bruce smiled and shrugged his shoulders, "Yeah, well, you know me, just a laze-about playboy."

"Rub down?"

"I'll let you know." If Bruce didn't know better, he would swear that Alfred was nervously dry washing his hands. That was completely out of character for his butler. "Let me grab a shower first. Give me ten?" The note of dismissal in the voice couldn't be missed even by a less-experienced person and Nat nodded.

"That sounds good to me. I think I'll go take a couple laps while you make up your mind." He touched his own muscled chest. "**I** wouldn't want to get out of shape." He grabbed up a fresh towel from a stack and headed for the indoor track, just as Bruce pushed the door into a small locker room.

He didn't bother to see if Alfred followed. Instead Bruce unbuckled the wide back support belt and ignored the hook installed for its use. He let it clunk to the floor and then dropped down onto a bench to untie his shoes. He looked up and over briefly before returning to his task as Alfred entered through the door. "So what's on your mind, Alfred?"

"Today is my day off, sir, as well you know."

"That's why you weren't banging around the place. I wondered where you were. Okay, so you were off today..."

"I visited the Clairmont Estate."

"That old tourist trap? I would have thought better of you, Alfred. Wasting your day off

like that." Bruce paused as he peeled off his shoes and socks. "I know it's a state landmark, but it's still a P.T. Barnum to my way to thinking."

"Which is why you donate a healthy sum to the Clairmont foundation annually?" If an outsider listened in, they would be shocked that a butler would have the nerve to speak to his employer is such an off-handed method, but both men were much more than what the surface revealed. In Bruce's eyes, Alfred was father, confident, co-conspirator. To Alfred, Bruce was the son he never had, his young charge, still desperately in need of guidance and protection, as well as the closest thing Gotham City ever had to a savior.

"Hey, you know what Barnum says about a fool and his money, Alfred." Bruce peeled off his tee shirt and it followed the previously discarded items. His shorts went the same way

"Did you know they claim Wayne family connections?" The butler bent to retrieve the fallen articles, well accustomed to picking up after the younger man.

"Nothing new about that, half of Gotham has Wayne family connections. One of the benefits about being a founding father, I suppose. Is that what you had to tell me?"

"Something of more interest to your alter ego, I should think, Master Bruce. There was a familiar face in my tour group."

"Anyone I know?"

"Intimately. It was Edward Nigma."

"What?" The head jerked back to stare at Pennyworth.

"I thought that would gain your undivided attention." There was a smug quality to Alfred's statement. He took the discarded clothes to a hamper, obviously content to permit the suspense to build for a moment.

"He's still in jail." Bruce said, thinking furiously for a moment, tapping his forefinger as he thought. His forehead crinkled and he looked back at Alfred, suddenly adrift in time. "Wait. What month is this?"

"It's a topic that you might want to take up with Commissioner Gordon."

"Let Nat know I've flown… forgotten appointment… meeting the Shah of Brunei or something." Bruce took a step toward the locker room door.

"Sir."

"Yeah, Alfred?"

"You're naked, sir." Alfred held up a black towel and Bruce smiled.

"What would I do without you, Alfred?"

"Expose mankind to another entirely different view of Bruce Wayne."

"Isn't he?" The question was posed to a heavy-set man in his early fifties. The stacks of paperwork weren't quite tall enough to hide behind and there was no place else he could disappear to, although he was certainly giving the illusion of wanting to do just that. Jim Gordon looked as though there were a hundred other places he would rather be than confronting Bruce Wayne.

"Actually... no. He was released two weeks ago."

"Jim, the man nearly crippled the entire police department. He nearly killed me. Granted he didn't know I was there but still."

"Damn it, Bruce, I don't just arbitrarily go around saying who gets released and who doesn't. If you were so concerned, you should have shown up at the parole hearing. You were notified in plenty of time."

Yes, he had received the notice, but the parole hearing occurred the same time as a series of very nasty bombings were plaguing the financial institutes of Gotham. It had meant long nights and even longer days for the Batman as he struggled to bring the bombings to an end. Somehow Bruce Wayne's needs got pushed aside for that of a greater need. However, he couldn't very well use that as an excuse, not without revealing a secret he'd kept well hidden for years.

"I wasn't in the country then, Jim. There was some trouble with one of my companies in Germany." Bruce ran a hand through his hair, giving him a little boy lost look, but for just a moment.

"You made your choice, Bruce, and the parole board made theirs. Edward Nigma was deemed to no longer be a threat to society. Case closed." Jim was trying to be firm with the man without being cruel.

"Jim, he's crazy."

"Not according to the prison psychologist." Jim reached for his pipe. "Why are you so concerned anyway? It isn't like he's going to hold a grudge against you. You didn't put him away, the Batman did."

"Then maybe I should be talking to him," Bruce said, rising. He'd gotten the information he was after. He'd wanted the when and why the Riddler had been released. As long as no one asked him if he was happy about it, it would be okay. It was true the Riddler was no worse than the Penguin or the Joker. In fact, the opposite argument could be made. He was the least violent of the three, but also the cleverest. To Bruce Wayne's way of thinking, that made him even more dangerous to the people of Gotham.

"Right, that will be the day." It was a well known fact that Wayne didn't associate with, much less approve of, Gotham's caped vigilante. The younger man was quiet for a moment, then sat forward in his chair

"What if I told you I had reason to believe that the Riddler was already planning his next heist," Bruce said softly.

The commissioner was interested and he pursed his lips for a moment before murmuring, "I'd be forced to ask for details, Bruce."

"Alfred saw him at the Clairmont Estate."

Gordon sat back with a snort, "The man's free, he can go where he wants... within reason of course. That's circumstantial at best, Bruce. You can't prove a thing."

"Yet."

Bruce stood and turned to walk out the door, pausing at Jim's softly spoken, "Bruce, I'm saying this as a friend and not as the police commissioner. Don't stick your nose into police business that doesn't concern you. It could be dangerous and you might get hurt."

"It's good advice, Jim. I wonder if I'll follow it." And he was gone, threading his way past crowded desks, through bleak corridors into the even bleaker Gotham City day. Gray, almost black clouds hid the sky from view. Somehow, it suited his mood today.

He climbed into the car and slammed the door a little harder than was necessary. Bruce Wayne was a man used to getting his own way. If Gordon wouldn't help him, then there was one man who could.

Clouds had melted in the night as it approached and brought fat raindrops that pelted the canopy of the Batmobile as it rolled slowly through the back streets and alleys of Gotham City.

The bitter cold of the rain had driven most people inside and the Batman couldn't help wishing he could join them. The Batsuit didn't include protection from the elements. In the summer, he sweltered and in the winter, he froze. At least it didn't leak… yet, and he had the shelter of the Batmobile for the moment.

The car's monitor bleeped on, displaying a shirt-sleeved Alfred Pennyworth. From what Batman could see, the manservant was in Bruce's personal library, rummaging through papers and books there.

"What's goin' on, Alfred," Bruce said, not bothering to keep up the Batman façade for the butler's benefit.

"I believe I have located that information you requested, sir, regarding the Clairmont Estate. Going back through the Wayne family tree, I did find references to the broken engagement between your great grandfather and Miss Estelle, although the allusions are rather shaded."

"What do you mean?" He turned onto Fifth Ave, his attention on the myriad of alleys rather than the road. Thankfully the traffic was light enough at this time of night to permit such inattention. In fact his was the only vehicle moving down the street at the moment.

"Apparently the arrangements had been made by the parents as was the custom at that time. When your great grandfather was made aware of his impending marriage to Miss Estelle, he protested, saying that he was in love with another woman. Before the marriage could take place, the other woman became pregnant and your great grandfather was forced to do the honorable thing to uphold the honor of the family. I suspect if that Bruce Wayne was anything like his great grandson, it wasn't an accidental pregnancy."

"I'd make book on it, Alfred. I've never heard of any Wayne doing anything by accident, especially Great grandfather. Is there anything else news worthy?" Somehow the Batmobile seemed a bit warmer while the butler spoke.

"As I recall, Mr. Nigma was inordinately interested in the rumored treasure buried in the cellar of the manor. He spoke of it several times."

"Didn't we buy some wine from the Clairmont estate recently? It was hidden in a wine cellar that was only just discovered?"

"Yes, sir, that was also mentioned in the tour."

"Then it's possible that the vault does indeed exist, even after all this time?"

"Possible, but unlikely. While the tour guide was quick to stress that the vault was merely a rumor and not to be seriously considered as fact, she did say that they were still uncovering parts of the basement."

"We're still discovering parts of the Batcave and how long have I been hiding out down there?" A shadowy form slipping along the side of a building caught his attention and he stopped the car. "I gotta go, Alfred. Try to call up any schematics you might find on the caves in the area, old U.S. geological maps, maps that we've made. I'll check in later." He punched off the screen and climbed out of the car into the dark arms of night.

It wasn't all that different from the inside of his jail cell, Edward thought, as he stared at the four walls of his studio apartment. The big difference was that he had the key for the door and he could come and go at will and **that **was one big difference.

Outside rain hammered at his window and Edward walked over to it, shifting his attention to the night.

"What goes up the chimney down, but not down the chimney up?" he asked his reflection in the glass. His hands came out to rest against the glass as a well of anger and sadness bubbled up inside him. Had he been so reduced as to resorting to ridiculous children's riddles for his riddling pleasure? Is that what had his via for freedom had cost him?

He'd forced himself to abandon his beloved riddles and to put them out of his mind. He began reading girlie magazines, muscle books, anything except what he dearly wanted, what he craved. Gradually, the prison psychologist began to believe that Edward had finally come into step with the rest of humanity. Edward walked through the prison gates a free and rehabilitated man.

The window panes fogged around his fingers, reminding him of the cold dark night just beyond his fingertips...as if his back would let him forget. Batman had mopped up the floor with him and Edward's back had never been quite the same afterwards. Now it joined his arm in its weather forecasting abilities and Edward briefly considered renting himself out as a barometer to make a little cash on the side.

His financial situation was not immediately frantic, but he was going to have to get serious about his new caper really soon. Another visit to the Clairmont Estate should be all he needed. Edward would disappear from view and his parole officer would just assume he'd skipped town or was laying low among the criminal element of the town. No one would or could ever suspect that Edward had gone into hiding in the basement of one of Gotham's most-famous homes. It couldn't be better than if he was hiding out at Wayne's dive.

Edward walked away from the window and back to a small scarred table. He picked up a pamphlet of Clairmont Mansion and flipped to the tour times. The most accommodating time for Edward would the last tour on Saturday. It was the end of the most hectic day for the tour guides, the largest crowds and the most questions. Who would miss one nondescript tourist? His lips started to twist into a smile as he slid into his single rickety chair.

The only jarring note in the whole picture was that old man from a couple of days earlier. Edward swore that the old guy had recognized him, but Edward was good with faces and he didn't remember meeting the man. That bothered him, but not so much that it would be likely to rob him of his sleep.

He rose with a grunt to shut off the overhead light. Then, with a groan, he eased himself down onto the sagging cot. _Damn the Batman,_ Edward thought, wincing at the pain lancing up his spine. He was going to need to get a board for his back.

He kicked the sheets up toward his hands and pulled them up around his neck. With a final groan, he shifted his weight until he found a tolerable spot and shut his eyes. Had he continued to look out the window for a moment longer, he would have seen a familiar figure silhouetted by a lightning flash.

The Batman looked in at the blanket-wrapped figure and, for a brief moment, envied the criminal. At least, **he** was dry and warm, and not hanging from a rope in the middle of a rain storm, peeping in windows. Batman wondered what a psychologist would say about that little propensity of his.

Tracking down the Riddler had been a task as simple as breaking into the parole officer's desk and looking through the records until the Batman found what he wanted. Not exactly legal, but then neither was the Batman.

The way he saw it, the Batman had two options. One would be to break in and scare the fear of the Bat into Nigma. That would put a cap on the criminal's activities for a little while. Or two, stay back and keep an eye on Nigma's activities until the lunatic tipped his hand. Perhaps it was time to pay his own visit to the Clairmont Mansion and poke around a little. After all, he had lots of experience exploring dark, unyielding places.

It was late, wet, and cold out. Knowing that the Riddler was tucked into bed gave the Batman the peace of mind he needed to continue on his rounds. There was a drug operation that he needed to pay a visit to before calling it a night, just in case Gordon's men bungled the raid.

It appeared as if the raid was well in progress when the Batman pulled the Batmobile into an alleyway about a block from the site. He covered the remaining distance on foot, his approach silent amid the wailing of the sirens and exchange of semi-automatic gun fire.

The roof was covered, but the gunman was busy concentrating on the policemen below, not watching his back against marauding bats. Stupid, really, but that was the criminal element for you. If they had any brains, they'd choose another profession.

Batman wrenched the man around and off his feet with one yank. This was his favorite parlor trick and it never failed to impress his quarry.

"Let me go," the man pleaded hoarsely, his hands tearing the black gauntlets.

"Is that really what you want?" Batman asked hoarsely, a smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. Never let it be said that the Batman was without a sense of humor. The man abruptly became aware of the fact that his toes were not only dangling inches from the roof surface, but that they were also suspended over the edge.

A spotlight suddenly caught them both in a shower of near-blinding white light, but the effect only further served to make the crimefighter look more imposing.

"Yes...No!" The gunman began to whimper as it suddenly sank in that it might not be to his own benefit to be released at just this moment.

"I thought you'd see things my way," Batman said, softly. He spun and threw the man against an air compressor's housing. He kicked the assault rifle over the edge. When he turned back, the gunman was climbing to his feet, his anger making him blind to the fact that he was severely out-muscled.

The criminal rushed Batman and caught a steel-reinforced boot in the stomach. Just in case he harbored any illusion about a second attempt, Batman sent him to the surface of the roof with an elbow to the back of his head. The gunman collapsed into a limp pile and Batman walked to the edge of the roof. The cord he'd abandoned earlier was waiting for him. He wrapped it around his gauntlet and stepped off the roof.

The arc swung him down into the remains of a window, sending shards of glass flying inward onto the trio of gunmen hiding there. Bleeding, surprised and stunned, it was a matter of a few well placed punches to take care of two of them.

That accomplished, Batman turned to deal with the third and caught the rifle blast straight in the chest. He swore as the impact threw him backwards over one of his unconscious victims and out the window he'd just come through.

Batman's hand groped and found the cord, twisted it around his wrist with a practiced motion. A shoulder screamed out at protest at the yank that marked the end of his descent and he released the rope to drop to the relative safety of the iron grill of a fire escape.

A bullet from above impacted against the side of his cowl, whacking his head brutally to one side and making his vision swim. _Jeeze, it must be 'out to get the Bat' night, _he thought as he pulled himself towards the building, feeling two more strikes hit the back plating of his armor.

He slid through the window and to the floor, breathing deeply to clear his head and collect his thoughts. His reprieve would be short, if at all, so he needed a plan.

The gunfire was increasing from both within and without, masking any sounds that might give the approach of his attackers away. In this sort of situation, the best thing to do is simply disappear.

He got to his feet and moved into the shadows, pulling his cape around him to hide the yellow of his emblem and belt. It was a time to wait and watch.

A bullhorn was blasting demands from below as the door to the room swung open.

"He's in here, I saw him." It was the gunman from his first encounter, unaware of the fact that his foot was a mere six inches from the object of his search. Cowardice being the better part of survival, the gunman paused and let his companion venture further into the room over to the broken window. "Look for some blood, Billy Boy. I hit him at least five times. There won't be much fight left to the son of a -"

"Tony?" asked the second gunman without turning as the seconds trickled past. "Lenny?" This time, he ventured a glance over his shoulder and panicked when it became obvious that he realized he was suddenly alone in the room. "What the hell, Tony?" The demand was more of a plea.

There would no reply from Lenny, for he was merely an unconscious lump of wasted humanity sprawled out on the floor behind the Batman. Billy Boy cocked his assault rifle and scanned the room.

"All right, Batman, I know you're here." He sprayed the room with gunfire, which only resulted in sending Tony to the Happy Hunting Grounds. Batman took two hits, one in the legging, another in the reinforced plating of his stomach. Prepared for the onslaught, he managed to stay on his feet and not give away his position.

Billy Boy's rifle jammed and he cursed, throwing it down to the floor. He turned to leave and suddenly screamed as a shadow detached itself from the wall and approached him. Before Batman could utter a word, Billy Boy raced for the window. His panic made him clumsy so that as he cleared the sill, he tripped, sailed over the railing of the fire escape to drop six stories to the sidewalk.

_Couldn't have happened to a better guy_, Batman thought as he turned back to the wounded criminal. He probed the man's neck with his forefingers, but couldn't detect a heartbeat. Oh well, one less, two less actually, criminals that he would have to worry about. These offenses would simply be piled onto the others he was reported to have caused.

Batman wasted no more time with Tony, but instead headed deeper into the brownstone building. With ten stories in this building, the drug op could be nearly anywhere and he had little chance of finding them before they disposed of their merchandise. All he could do was hope to cause enough distress to slow them down in the destruction of evidence. There were sounds of activity on the floors below and above him, so the Batman decided to go up, his own personal favorite direction.

Leaving a path of unconscious bodies behind him so that he could find his way back out, the Batman systemically worked through the muscle of the drug op.

"Where the hell are you, Gordon?" Batman growled. Even he had only so much endurance. He loosened a couple smoke pellets from his belt and tossed them over the railing of the stair well. Since Gordon wasn't coming to him, the Batman would go to him. He unhooked the bat grappling gun, fired and tested the line.

Cape billowing out behind him, he swooped down through the smoke. Men scrambled in his wake, but the only other door was blocked by the sudden appearance of Gordon's men...finally. Batman sailed over their heads and into the wet dark night.

The Commissioner followed to the door and looked around, as if trying to locate the Batman in the haze of smoke. Shaking his head, he walked back to his parked sedan and stood there for a moment.

"Your men were late." It was as if one of the shadows was suddenly given the power of whispering speech.

"The Syndicate was tipped off that we were coming."

"Another leak?"

"So it would appear. A lot of the evidence is gone, you know."

"There's still enough to prosecute."

"Thanks to your intervention, but did you have to toss that guy out the window?"

"I don't kill, Gordon." The Batman merely defended himself. "He killed himself."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"I saw you hit twice. Are you sure?"

"Yes." Something lying in the rubble attracted the Batman's attention and he knelt to retrieve it. It was a book. Not just any book, but one entitled, _1001 Riddles, Jokes and Enigmas. _The hand holding the book tightened until the leather crackled in the cold night air. Batman spun and approached a brace of policemen. As if conveying his wishes mentally, a handcuffed man was suddenly pushed to the front of the pack.

"Where did you get this?" Batman demanded, holding the book up.

"A Girl Scout gave it to me," the man said, but the quavering in his voice belied the bravado of his words.

Batman reached out and snatched him from his police escort. "I don't have time to play with scum like you," Batman rasped. "Where did you get this?"

His answer came in a shower of spittle and the cops that flanked either side of the man each stepped aside in unison. Batman thrust the book at Gordon and wiped his face with the back of one glove.

Just as deliberate, Batman suddenly spun and slammed the man back against a wooden crate. The same black glove cracked into the crate beside the man's face, going through the slats effortlessly. There was a hush among the men as the Batman slowly pulled his hand free and he smiled slightly.

"The next time, it will be your face. Where did you get the book?"

Apparently, he had made his point for the man's lips moved noiselessly for a moment before choking out, "From this guy in the lock up."

"Who?"

"Some red-haired guy. He was crazy sick about riddles, then all of a sudden, he just dropped them and started giving his books away. I traded him that for a stack of _Hustler_.

Batman let the man crumble into a heap and stepped away, heading for the shadows, but Gordon intervened.

"That won't hold up in a court of law, you know," Gordon said, handing him back the book. "Did Wayne talk to you?"

"No."

"He will."

Disrobing was always an interesting part of any evening. The cave wasn't heated, so the first onslaught of cold air could come as a wave of blessed relief or like a sledge hammer in his stomach. Or sometimes, like tonight, he just hurt too much to care about it. He unbuckled the breast plate of his uniform and carefully lifted the Gortex shirt he wore beneath it. Several multi-colored bruises were already exploding across his stomach. Even worse than the bruises was the ringing in his ears and the headache.

The butler had descended from the manor above, balancing a tray in one hand as he negotiated the rocks and power cords that snaked across the cave floor. "My word, Master Bruce, bad night?" he asked, setting down the tray.

"The bad nights are the ones I don't come home from," he said, struggling with the cowl and cape. Alfred helped him pull free and Bruce Wayne reemerged. The billionaire removed the book from a pouch on the belt and dropped it onto the counter top before collapsing back into a swivel chair with a grunt.

"_1001 Riddles, Jokes and Enigmas_?" Alfred read the title of the book. "Peculiar reading material or is this the standard fare for costumed crime fighters, sir?" He held out a thick velour robe.

"Picked it up at the drug raid in Crime Alley. Head guy said the Riddler gave it to him," Bruce said, working his boots off. He put on the robe Alfred offered before opening up the cover of the hardback. Inscribed on the title page was _E. Nigma 1964_ in spidery handwriting.

Bruce set the book aside and picked up the file on Nigma that he'd taken from the prison psychologist's office. The reports told how the psychologist had finally broken through Edward's barrier, uncovering incidents of child abuse and neglect that had led to his turning to crime.

"Yeah, right," Batman said aloud. "Try losing your parents at ten." He smiled tightly at his butler as the words came out, then he returned his task of disrobing. Unbuckling the leggings of his costume, he discovered that one leg proved to be as colorful as his stomach, but bruises he could live with. Any of the bullets the armor had stopped tonight could have killed him. He'd been very lucky.

"Why would Mr. Nigma be giving up his riddles, Master Bruce?"

"I don't know, Alfred, but I intend to find out. Do you have those maps?"

"On your desk, sir."

"Anything else?"

"You have a Board of Directors meeting this afternoon. I have taken the liberty of pulling the necessary documentation and placed it in your study."

"Thank you. Wake me at 11:30. That should give me enough time to scan it."

"Very good, sir."

"And try to find out who Nigma gave the rest of his books too. There might be a clue."

"Yes, sir." The butler's calm acknowledgement gave no indication of the nearly impossible task before him.

Edward looked out his window at the gray, forlorn Gotham cityscape or what little of it he could see past the building across the street. He had only a couple more days before his excursion and doubt was starting to nag at him now. What if his provisions had been discovered and removed and the security tightened because of it? What if the whole thing was just a legend and there was no vault to discover? Edward would be in serious financial trouble then.

He glanced down at the book he held, his latest treasure. "3001 of the World's Best Riddles" would be of great comfort in those dark lonely moments in the basement of the Clairmont Mansion.

With a smile, he randomly opened the book and glanced down at the page.

_A red maiden is sitting in a green summerhouse,_

_If you squeeze her she will cry._

_And her tears they are as red as blood, _

_But yet her heart is made of stone_.

It was pure nectar to his riddle-starved brain. He deliberately put off solving it, toying with the words instead. This was almost as good as sex; better, in fact. He didn't have to be polite, remember any name or be expected to cook breakfast in the morning. Of course Edward hadn't been with a woman in so long that it didn't really matter anyhow. Besides prostitution was illegal and it was a violation of his parole to associate with criminals.

He snickered at that and, smiling, Edward solved the puzzle and closed the book without checking the answer in the back. Normally, he'd tear out all the solutions before he even started, but he'd been so long without riddles that he didn't trust his ability.

He missed his old books, but they had been a necessary sacrifice in his vie for freedom. Once he got his hands on the Clairmont fortune, he'd be able to buy them back and more. Then Edward Nigma would, once again, be resplendent in riddles.

Bruce Wayne doodled on the pad in front of him, doing his best to look bored out of his mind. The meeting had broken up just a few minutes ago and the only ones left in the room were Lucius Fox and himself.

"So what do you think, Bruce?" Fox was not fooled by Wayne's blatant display of ennui. The CEO was too business wise for that.

"'Bout what, Lucius? Stocks are up, profits are up, we're opening two new offices overseas and we're in the top two percent of the Fortune 500." Bruce rattled off the agenda to his operation manager. "Do you want me to forecast gloom and doom and insist that we're heading for a downward trend in the market?"

"Not necessarily, but a little reaction, good or bad, would be nice and show that you're at least listening to us," Fox said, taking off his glasses. "I am assuming that we'll be able to go ahead with Christmas bonuses?"

"Even if I had to pay them out of my own pocket," Bruce said, smiling and rubbed an eye. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little tired today, Lucius."

"You're always a little tired, Bruce. When was the last time you took a vacation, a real vacation?" His answer was the shrug of Wayne's shoulders. "You sure you're not going to change your mind about the Mentworth contract? They would really like you to reconsider."

"No military contracts, Lucius, end of discussion. If you want, I'll be happy to tell them that myself. Why the push?"

"If I didn't push, I wouldn't be doing my job." The man got to his feet, then paused at Wayne's soft answer.

"I know, thank you."

Fox studied his employer for a long time before asking, "Bruce, are you sure you're okay?"

"Just great," he said aloud, then added mentally, _Just as long as I don't move, everything's fine_.

"I think you need a little more distraction in your life." Lucius said, holding out an envelope to the younger man.

"Yeah, I need more distractions like I need another IRS audit" He took the envelope. It was plain and the return address had been hand stamped. His name was typed, not engraved. He tore it open, asking, "What's this?"

"They're holding a midnight tour of the old Clairmont place. It's a fund raiser for the local orphans. I know how you feel about it and, considering your entwined family history, I thought you might want to check it out."

"How about you?"

The invitation was printed on plain paper – a good idea for a fundraiser. Bruce automatically discarded the ones that were expensively done.

"At $500 a head?" Now Lucius laughed. "Too rich for my blood."

"You're the business manager. Give yourself a raise."

"Not on your life. The last thing I need is to be bumped up into a higher tax bracket. Besides Clair isn't into that sort of thing. Right now she's up to her eyebrows with planning Jenny's wedding."

Bruce nodded and tucked the envelope into his breast pocket. He'd been looking for an excuse to check out the Clairmont place. This was his chance and besides, midnight. What better time to check out his suspicions and to disappear should the need arise?

Edward wandered through the extremely familiar gates of the Clairmont Estate, a blond wig hiding his short-cropped red hair this time. None of the regular staff recognized him and the fewer people who remember the quiet, nondescript guest he was going to be this time, the better.

There seemed to be a bustle of activity that was unusual even for a Saturday and he turned to the ticket taker.

"What is going on, please?" He used a thick Slavic accent to hide his own voice.

"We're getting ready to close down for the season, but before we do, we're having a special midnight tour of the manor. It's sort of a tradition for Halloween eve."

"That sounds like enjoyment. I mean, it sounds enjoyable. Please forgive my English.""

"Yeah, if you've got the money. Tickets are $500 a pop."

"A pop? Like a lollipop?" Edward paused, then asked, "Mirrors, but no reflections. Kittens, but no cats. Cattle, but no cows. Lollipops, but no candy and trees but no forests. It's the land of what?"

The girl snapped her gum at him and sighed in annoyance. Foreigners were always a problem. "What, sir?"

"The land of double letters. It's a joke, you see, just as this is. That is very expensive when a regular tour costs but twenty dollars," he concluded, holding up his ticket. He seriously regarded the woman as she processed the sale.

"Sure is, but it's a great way to meet someone who's loaded. That's why I never turn down the opportunity to work it!" She winked Edward, who again nodded seriously. "Your tour will be leaving in just a few minutes, sir. You don't want to miss it."

"Yes, of course, thank you."

He'd planned to start exploring tonight, but now self interest dictated another path. The last thing he needed was to trip over one of those money bags. Instead he'd simply have to wait and watch. Who knew what other possibilities might open themselves to him?

"Are you quite sure you intend to go through with this, sir?"

"Alfred, I would have thought you'd be delighted that I was taking a night off."

"If it were only that, Master Bruce," Alfred Pennyworth said as he laid out a suit jacket that he deemed worthy of ghost hunting.

Bruce stared at his reflection in the mirror as he knotted his tie. "It's for charity, it gets me inside the Clairmont Estate and it may be the only opportunity I have of sneaking away if needed. You can also be sure that if the Riddler is involved, he'll be around. Is the suitcase in the car?"

"Yes, sir, and the key is in the usual place."

"Thank you." He adjusted his collar, making sure it was loose enough for him to swallow, and walked over to the bed. "Don't worry if you don't hear from me for awhile. I don't know how long this will take."

"Do be careful, Master Bruce." He held out a cashmere muffler. "You know how susceptible you are to colds."

"Always am, Alfred." Bruce grinned and slapped the butler on his shoulder. He grabbed his wallet and keys from the bedside table and walked out. "Don't wait up."

"And risk missing David Letterman, perish the thought, sir."

Edward was not a man of great imagination. No, he often flattered himself by thinking he had none at all. However, the creaks, groans, and abrupt snaps were enough to send the most unimaginative man to have sudden fits of panic. Edward swept the area in front of him with a beam of light, but it did little to cut through the blackness of the cellar.

"Why are ghosts very simple things?" Edward asked, mostly to hear the sound of a voice, any voice, including his. "Because you can see right through them." A sharp crack and he swung the beam in the direction of the noise, but it revealed nothing. A prickle of fear caressed Edward's spine with a velvet touch.

It was only a half an hour to midnight and he could hear people rustling above him...at least he hoped it was people and not something else. This was much worse than he was expecting

The cellar was dank, smelly and as unnerving as it was big. Edward considered shutting the flashlight off for a moment, then shook his head and turned back to his book, _The History of Clairmont Mansion, Chapter ten – Ghosts and all the Wee Beasties._ The Estate, it would appear, was fraught with ghosts.

"Oh sweet, it's not bad enough that I'm freaking myself out, now I have printed word to complete the task." He didn't want to read, but he couldn't help himself. That the old bat Estelle would be haunting the place made sense. Hell, she haunted it while she was still alive. What did surprise Edward was the number of unknown ghosts, those presumed to be workers killed during the building of the house.

There were also hints of terrible things done to the servants – horrible treatment to correct problem behavior. One story pertained to a young parlor maid. Estelle's then fiancé made a comment about how beautiful the girl was to Estelle and that night the poor young girl was found horribly disfigured, both of her cheeks slit open. She never said who did it, but was obviously terrified that if she did, the perpetrator would be back to finish the job. While it was never proven that Estelle either commissioned or performed the disfigurement herself, it was just one of many such incidents.

Edward shivered in the dank air of the basement. "Hell, you are even more twisted than the Joker," he said out loud. Even though he knew he was alone, he was fairly sure Estelle was listening. There was a loud creak and Edward took a deep breath. It was going to be a long night.

As he scanned the crowd, Bruce Wayne recognized many of the financial elite of Gotham. Reporters and camera crews from various stations, newspapers and magazines clustered around people, hoping for some tidbit of news, gossip, or anything else they could carry away with them. These would be fed to a gossip-hungry public, desperate to know how the upper crust lived, thought and played. Bruce started to chuckle, then winced as the movement pulled an already strained muscle.

_If they only knew,_ he thought. Bruce didn't play the game like the others. It annoyed him; so he annoyed it right back. He ignored unflattering publicity, never going out of his way to confirm or deny it. Equally, he avoided the ones who fawned and waxed poetic about his generosity and the benefits he'd given to Gotham.

A tiny Japanese woman waved to him and Bruce smiled as he approached her.

"Good evening," he said, in her native language and that made her smile even broader.

"Bruce, I'm glad you made it. The thought of going through this place alone freaks me out."

"You'd hardly be alone, Lil," Bruce said, taking her proffered hand and kissing the back of it. Several heads turned in their direction, anxious to see if this was going to be another of Bruce's numerous conquests. What he really didn't want was to have a spotlight thrown upon him. If he had to vanish, it would be easier if as few people as possible knew he was here.

"You know what I mean. This place is bad enough during the day. At night, it's even worse. I mean, they say Old Lady Clairmont murdered over a dozen of her servants and their spirits walk at night. I don't know how you talked me into this."

"You teach martial arts; there's not one person in this room who could take you," Bruce said. Himself, excluded, of course, but she didn't have to know that. "Besides, Lil, I've learned that it's not the ghosts you have to fear; it's usually the living."

"Mr. Wayne, it's a surprise to see you here tonight." Tonya Mathes was one of Gotham's rising media stars. She now smiled prettily at Bruce, while shoving a microphone in his face. "What do you make of all of this?"

Effortless, Bruce snatched two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and offered one to Lil. He clicked his glass to hers and drank as if totally ignorant of the question. Just when he judged the reporter was about to crack, he murmured, "Well, Miss Mathes, you'll have to narrow your question down. Do you refer to the house, the benefit, the feeding frenzy of media vultures?"

The woman's face reddened and the fight for control over her temper was obvious in her eyes. "Why would you be interested in Gotham's orphans? I meant the midnight tour of the Clairmont Estate, of course. "

"Of course." Bruce sipped his champagne and said, in soft Japanese, to Lil, "This is one of the living that I was referring to earlier. Play along, this should be fun."

Lil brought delicate fingers to her mouth to cover her smile and demurely dropped her eyes.

Bruce returned his attention to the journalist. "What I would like to know, Miss Mathes, is why I wouldn't support the orphans of Gotham? After all, I'm one of them." The comment caught Mathes off guard and he leaned close to her. "Before you talk to me again, I suggest you do your homework beforehand."

He led Lil away from the steaming reporter and Lil glanced back over her shoulder at the woman. "Wow, you play dirty pool, Wayne-san."

"If they want to play with me, we use my rules," Bruce said, exchanging their glasses for fresh ones. "Not checking out the background of your subjects is sloppy journalism. She should have known that this is one of my favorite charities and that I support them as much as possible. This is why she got bumped from the market in Chicago and ended up in Gotham. She never did her work and did this incredibly poignant report on the plights of this one drug addict, as told to her by his girlfriend. Later it was revealed that the girlfriend was a writer and had created the entire story as an attempt to blow the whistle on the desperation of some reporters to shovel slop as opposed to real news."

"Ouch."

"Miss Mathes paid for her eagerness with her job and came here to start anew. Unlike her, I do my homework."

"There's at least two dozen of Gotham's elite here. How could she remember all the facts?"

"I'm one of Gotham's most notable orphans. It's her job to remember such things and I guarantee that she'll never approach me again without her facts firmly in hand. Let's just say I gave her a lesson in how not to start an interview."

A voice over the loudspeaker interrupted him. "May I have your attention please? Our tour will begin in ten minutes. If you will please line up in front of the gate, we can begin. Also, I've been asked to remind everyone that there are to be no recording devices, cameras with flash or video cameras inside the manor without prior written permission."

"Sounds like we're about ready to rock and roll," Lil said as she set her glass aside. A group of four tux-wearing men approached them and the leader held out a hand to Wayne.

"Glad you could make it tonight, Wayne," the man thundered, then he leaned in. "Going for a little oriental nookie, eh? Is it true what they say about Japanese girls?"

"Beats me, she's my jujitsu instructor. One wrong move and she'll tie my arm around my throat. Have fun, boys." Bruce turned away from them and offered Lil his arm. "Shall we?"

"You really don't like them, do you?" she asked as they walked away from the group.

"They are a bunch of pompous ass suck ups, the lot of them, but I don't know why you think I don't like them." Bruce grinned at her warmly. "Besides, I didn't like what they said about you."

"Oh?"

"Not to worry, Lil, I set them straight."

The tour was slowly winding its way through the corridors and rooms of the Clairmont Estate and so far nothing had triggered his Bat sense. Bruce stifled a yawn and glanced over at Lil, who was eating all of this nonsense about ghosts and haunting up like bread to a starving man. The dark held no secrets, no mysteries for him. Unlike most people, he didn't fear the shadows and the creatures that lurked in them. After all, he was the thing that most of monsters had nightmares about.

The tour guide had led them all into a curtain-draped, oddly-shaped room. Carefully placed candles were the only illumination besides the flashlight that the guide carried.

"This is Estelle's séance room. According to bookkeeping records, she had a full-time medium, a practicing witch and a conjurer on her staff. Whether this was to contact the spirits of her dearly departed or to keep those spirits at bay is anyone's guess."

"If you look around the room, you will see numerous references to eleven, Miss Estelle's favorite number. There are eleven walls, with eleven panels, eleven curtains, the rug contains eleven squares and because of the eleven candle holders, we assume there was also eleven of those as well."

"It's good to have a hobby," Bruce murmured to Lil. If the tour guide heard him, she ignored the comment.

"Nearby townspeople reported that every night the tower bell would ring, once at midnight to summon the spirits, again at three to drive them away. The night of her death, the bell rang at midnight and never again. There are several documented cases that stated the bell fell from the tower four stories up at, ironically enough, 12:05, the exact moment that Estelle drew her last breath."

Bruce's attention wandered from the guide to the room. As accustomed as he was to small places, it was quickly becoming claustrophobic in here. A curtain rustled and Bruce cocked an eyebrow. He couldn't detect any drafts or any movement of air. The guests were stock still, fascinated as the guide spun stories about Estelle's spiritual encounters.

_Mice? Maybe, but doubtful. At least not in these areas. What then?_ He eased himself through the crowd and to the spot. Pushing aside the curtain, he stared into the darkness behind it. His night vision was better than average, yet he could make nothing out.

Looking around to make sure that he wasn't attracting attention, he knelt and reached out to touch the wood. Gently he pressed against it and it yielded, suddenly swinging inward and allowing a breath of musty, cold air egress in.

"Ah, Mr. Wayne has astutely discovered one of Miss Estelle's parlor tricks," the tour guide's voice interrupted his investigation and he glanced back over his shoulder at her. Now the focus of attention, he stood, pulling back the curtain for everyone else to see.

"Estelle would like to, as she put it, scare the disbelief right out of the scoffers and often put on rigged séances. The whole room is rigged with trap panels and doors. Eleven, in fact."

"Why bother?" Bruce asked, dusting off his hands. "If she was as firm a believer as she was reputed to be, why resort to cheap tricks?"

"Ghosts can't be made to perform like a pet dog. You can't rely upon them to..."

With a sudden whistling roar, every door and panel in the room abruptly opened and the resulting gush of air extinguished all candles. Before they were plunged into near dark, Wayne had immediately focused his attention on the tour guide. Her face had paled, either she was a heck of an actress or the trick had caught her off-guard or unaware. Now the hand holding the flashlight trembled slightly as she relit the nearest candles.

"I think perhaps it's time to move on." She walked to a door and it slammed shut upon her approach. It was obvious to even a non-trained observer that her resolve was crumbling.

Bruce used the moment to look through at the panel that he stood in front of. Everyone's attention was on the tour guide as she stammered out some sort of weak explanation as to what was happening.

He shuffled a step towards the panel, which remained open. Another step, still no response. He slipped through the opening easily and stood up to study his surroundings. Even in the low light, they seemed vaguely familiar. Then it came to him; they'd been here just a few minutes ago. This was the hallway which led to the south conservatory.

Bruce turned back to the panel and gave it a gentle push. Obligingly, it swung back into place, leaving him alone in the moon-lit hall. Or he thought he was alone. A sudden rustle drew his attention and he detected a slight movement. He turned in that direction and looked.

Edward regretted it the moment he moved. Whoever the idiot was who had decided to leave the tour, had apparently seen him and decided to join Edward's party. Two more steps were all Edward had needed to escape back into an unfinished part of the manor. However, it might now be two impossible steps. He froze in place and hoped that his observer would decide that it had been a trick of his or her eyes and panic.

Instead, the figure mimicked him, standing still and staring straight at him. Even though he knew he couldn't be seen, it gave Edward a peculiar turn in his stomach. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the Batman's silhouette.

The moon drifted behind a cloud, plunging the immediate area into blackness. That was his exit cue and Edward didn't waste any time. He pushed the paneling open, stepped through, and shut it all in one motion. He thought he saw the figure coming in his direction and he leaned the secret panel to hold it firmly in place.

There was a soft rustle of skin against wood and Edward doubled his efforts as the pressure increased against the wood. After what seemed like hours, the pressured lessened. Still Edward kept his weight wedged against the panel. Sure enough, the pressure was back. Still the panel remained in place and eventually whoever was on the other side of the wall gave up.

Edward pressed his ear against the polished wood and listened. Nothing. Then the moon reappeared and Edward hurried away.

Bruce Wayne sat back on his heels and pursed his lips. He could have sworn he'd seen someone disappear through this section of the paneling, but it stayed firmly in place. He couldn't apply more pressure without the risk of damaging the expensive mahogany paneling and he decided it would serve him no real purpose.

Instead, he decided that it was time for Bruce Wayne to disappear and the Batman to take his place.

At the far end of the hallway was a dimly-lit exit sign and Bruce headed in that direction. The door revealed a stairwell and he hurried down the metal steps, which abruptly dumped him into the gift shop.

Two clerks looked up, startled at his appearance and Bruce sighed. Witnesses were not exactly what he needed right now.

"Can we help you, sir?" one asked as she approached him. Her name tag said Carol.

Bruce had had a lifetime of protecting his secret identity to perfect thinking on his feet. "Yes, Carol, you can." He fastened his eyes upon her, using them to speak to her as well as his voice. "Something very strange is going on in the séance room. All the doors are opening and closing by themselves. I think the tour guide has lost control. I decided to come for help."

"What?" The woman said as if hypnotized by his intent stare. Suddenly she blinked and shook her head. "Wait a minute, how did you get out then?"

"Came through a secret panel I was standing beside. I just waited until it opened and stepped through it. Then I followed the exit signs to back here."

"I'll go get security," Carol said. "Janice, maybe you better check it out. Stacy was pretty wired going into this gig."

In the excitement to help their fellow employee, Bruce was overlooked and he casually made his way to the exit of the shop and into the parking lot.

Edward took a deep breath and relaxed back against the unfinished wall of one of the numerous bedrooms. That would be a lesson to him; he should have stayed in the basement where it was safe, but scary. However, the tours never strayed into these rooms, so he was protected from detection here for the time being… granted his little friend didn't try to follow him.

He nervously glanced around, making sure he was alone in the room. That little episode had spooked him even more than the basement had.

The need for human companionship, never a strong factor in his life before, had abruptly kicked into full force and Edward had fled the dank, musty-smelling cellar for the house above, even thought he knew that there was a midnight tour is full force.

"You've got too much imagination, Edward, my boy," he said, chastising himself. "Get thee to the basement." A deep breath and he was off again, following a twisting path down into the bowels of the house.

He kept the little flashlight aimed directly on the floor in front of him and abruptly came face-to-face with one of Estelle's inconvenient walls. The beam and Edward came up fast and the light played across the surface of the wall. Of more interest than the rough concrete wall was the handprint visible in his flashlight beam.

"It was rumored that a worker left his name in the wet cement of one of the basement walls and Estelle sealed off that portion of the cellar, convinced that the vengeful spirit had left it was a warning to her. She thought it would be the name of her killer." Edward could hear the tour guide's voice in his head and he looked over at the hand print. It didn't seem frightening to him, but he wasn't some pent-up, frustrated old woman either.

He began to follow the wall and came to a padlocked door. It took him only a few moments to pick the lock, the thought of untold wealth beckoning to him to enter. After a moment and a backward glance, Edward slipped through the door and closed it.

Almost immediately, the dark surrounded him, threatening to suffocate the breath from him. His flashlight struggled against it, almost without success. Edward followed the stairs down. Dripping water replaced the familiar noises from the mansion above and Edward swept his light in an arc. It disappeared just feet from him. The stairs ended suddenly and Edward lifted the beam to trace the rough dirt floor.

"Might as well get cracking, old man," Edward said. He swallowed and took a deep breath. The air was so cold, his deep breath in gave him an instant headache. At least, he guessed that was what gave him such a sensation of remorse and dread.

The Batman stood quietly in the blackness, watching the small circle of light swallowed eagerly by the shadows of the basement. It hadn't taken any time to figure out who was wandering through the dank air. Even though Edward might have crept in undetected, his identity was exposed now. The Batman had a bead on him.

The night vision goggles the Batman wore cast an eerie glow on everything he looked at. He finally had his confirmation that the Riddler was up to something, but aside from trespassing, there wasn't much to nail him on, at least not yet. So instead of confronting him, the Batman decided to bide his time and watch.

He dropped into a squatting position, a leftover from his days in Japan, and settled in. After what he judged was about half an hour, Nigma emerged from the tunnel, passing just a foot from where his enemy waited. The Riddler stopped as his light stopped just short of the Batman's left knee. Then the Riddler continued down an opposite path.

"It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, cannot be heard, cannot be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after. It ends life and kills laughter," he heard Nigma murmur as he passed.

For a moment, the Batman thought he might have been spotted, but Nigma continued to speak as he walked on and it occurred to the Batman that it might be the need to hear a voice, any voice, that made Nigma speak.

"Dark, you old fiend, where are you hiding it? Why are you hiding it from me? Why it's just another riddle and there isn't one that I can't solve." The voice faded as he passed from hearing range.

The Batman watched the small pool of light wander away from him.

"Dark, a fiend to him, a friend to me" the Batman whispered. "Pick your side."

How long he'd been down here was a mystery, but the whiskers that sprouted across his upper lip gave some indication of the passage of time. Slowly, he chewed the mouthful of granola bar and mentally made a note to thank Alfred for its inclusion. The house above had fallen into a silence marred only by the sounds that any house made.

Since the construction of the mansion had been completed over a century ago, it made sense that it would creak and groan about the weight of time and age. Being raised in similar style of structure had a benefit in that Bruce Wayne didn't jump and look around every time there was a noise the way Nigma did. Bruce Wayne knew how a house could complain and whine in the dark.

And, of course, the Batman was used to caves. The constant drip of distant water and the dark invisible rustling of his brethren above were familiar sounds and he took in them.

However, it was clear to the Batman that the Riddler was slowly losing a battle with his imagination. He would suddenly swing his light around and demand, "Who's there?" At times the beam would come perilously close to illuminating him, but light the walls instead of him.

His periods of sleep were fitful and brief, a situation the Batman was also used to.

Of course, Nigma also had only a flashlight for illumination. He'd eventually given up randomly searching the immediate area of the cellar and now he sat poring over maps, the beam of the flashlight tracing first one path, then another.

Batman had studied geological survey maps of the area, setting them to memory, but they had proved little help. Just as the massive cave beneath Wayne Manor had eluded the surveyors, so did much of the twisting corridors of clay and dirt hidden beneath the Clairmont Mansion.

There were a lot of parallels between the two houses and the Batman couldn't help but wonder if Estelle Clairmont had consciously copied the Wayne Manor while Nature duplicated the series of caves beneath the houses. Perhaps she and his great grandfather had been closer than it initially appeared or was widely led to believed.

Batman used the time Nigma spent on sleeping to do a little exploring on his own, but even the night vision goggles didn't surrender any answers to him. If there were indeed any secrets down here, Estelleburied them well.

Edward's head bobbed up, his eyes narrowed with the effort of listening. He swore he wasn't alone, that he was being watched, but once again his flashlight refused to turn up anything. With a sigh, he turned back to his maps, although that path had quickly revealed itself to be a dead end. Somehow, this wasn't going as he'd planned. He hadn't counted on all this...this atmosphere.

The fact that it was Halloween night or at least that he'd started on Halloween night, also preyed upon his mind, although it really shouldn't have. After all, Oct 31 was just another day as far as he was concerned.

He'd loved the holiday growing up as it was during a bout of trick or treating that he'd been given his first riddle. It had been wrapped around a piece of gum. He didn't remember the name of the gum or the taste, but he still remembered the riddle: _When is a door not a door? When it's ajar_. He didn't understand it until his older brother explained it to him. For some reason, it was enough to hook Edward for the rest of his life.

Edward never had anything but fond regards for the holiday before; he'd certainly never allowed it to stand in the way of his making a dishonest living.

Perhaps he was going about this all wrong. Perhaps he'd have more luck if he approached it as he did his riddles. He ran his fingers through his short cropped red hair and took several deep breaths to clear his mind and re-center his thoughts.

"Once upon a time, there was this crazy old woman. She built and built her house until she could build no more because in the end, Death proved stronger than even Estelle's will. She loved the number eleven, stained glass, Oscar Wilde, torturing her servants, and her favorite animal was the bat." Here Edward paused, coughed and spit. "Yeah, like anyone in their right mind could like bats, but I digress. This crazy old woman had a fortune that she buried in the cellar, hidden to everyone, but her. Where would she hide it? Where would I hide it?"

Yes, he liked this much better. It gave him a chance to organize his thoughts. He walked over to the carved stone staircase and sat on the bottom step.

"Now the question is, Miss Estelle, if you were to combine all those facts, what do you come up with? What did you love and kill?" His own knowledge of Wilde was fairly extensive, since a collection of his plays was one of the few books he'd recently traded for. He closed his eyes and recited from memory, "Yet each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard. Some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss. The brave man does it with a sword." Edward thought over the words, for it seemed the most appropriate. That and a quote from _The Importance of Being Earnest_. "To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness."

Edward had no doubt that Estelle was anything but careless. The one thing, the only thing that she loved was wealth. She was deliberate, hard, and cruel, but not careless or stupid.

He sent the beam from his flashlight out on an excursion of the immediate area and noticed something he hadn't before. The rough stone walls had markings on them. His flashlight was also starting to lose it juice, but he was too interested to stop to change the batteries.

He stood and approached the closest one, his hand outstretched. His long slender fingers brushed against the cold wet stone and Edward involuntarily shuddered at the sensation; it felt like death itself.

Holding his fading beam close, his fingers traced the design, running them over and over the outline as his mind raced to match shape with identity_. A tree? Too smooth. A light bulb? Not invented. A...?_ Edward swallowed and snatched his hand back. _A skull?_

"Jesus," Edward sputtered and took a step back. It wasn't a carving at all, it was a real skull, eleven of them in fact. He stumbled, nearly dropped his flashlight, and then clutched it close to his chest.

The Batman watched Nigma's reaction with amusement. He'd seen the skulls grinning at him ever since he'd gotten here. He'd never had fear of skulls. After all, his father had been a doctor; there's been one in his study for as long as his son could remember. Bruce could remember running his finger along the fissures. His father would laugh and hug him, telling him the names of each part of the skull in turn. Bruce would sit on his father's lap, secure and comfortable in the love that surrounded him, never knowing that all too soon those arms would be lost to him forever. Taken from him in one brief moment, one blare of gunfire and then his mother as well - it was in that moment that Bruce Wayne died and The Batman was born.

Bruce had also spent several months studying with a forensic scientist, who also happened to double as Gotham's coroner. Both Bruce and the Batman grew used to the face of death in all its numerous forms.

Whose skulls Estelle had used, however, did pique his interest and he had a feeling that Estelle had this section of the basement shut off for reasons other than were suggested by the tour guide. It would be impossible to not eventually notice the rather macabre decoration and Batman was certain that it was for that reason that the facilities kept these chambers closed to the public.

There were the skulls, then a series of symbols, a demonic face, a second set of symbols, a grossly elongated bat and a last series of symbols. Batman had had no real luck at translating the script, although he read and spoke more languages than most people knew existed. The symbols closely resembled hieroglyphics. However, the translation he got from these symbols, however, made no sense and he abandoned it after awhile.

It took Nigma a long time to re-approach the walls and when he did, it was with fresh batteries. The beam bounced across the designs and the Batman finally figured out that the Riddler was counting the replicated patterns.

"Hmmm, eleven skulls, eleven monsters, eleven sets of mumbo jumbo, but twelve bats."

For a moment, the Batman wondered if he'd been finally been spotted by the criminal, but the man's beam had never left the walls. Batman turned and started his own count. Nigma was right, there was an extra bat. That was odd. Odder still was that he hadn't noticed it before.

Nigma disappeared back to his campsite, returned with a pickax and started to work on the edges of the bat stone. It took Nigma so long that the Batman was ready to get up and help him, but eventually the criminal worked the stone loose. It fell with a dull _thunk_ and the Riddler hastily reached into the space, only to withdraw the hand with a curse.

Obviously not successful, Batman decided as the Riddler stood back and drummed his fingers against his head. Batman could almost hear the wheels turning in the man's head.

"What if that wasn't the twelfth bat? What if the first one is the odd man out?" Nigma was off again and he didn't stop until the floor was littered with stone debris.

"It isn't fair," Nigma said, softly, collapsing into an exhausted heap. "What is your secret?" Then he was asleep, but the Batman didn't realize it for a long time. Batman watched the Riddler sleep, not daring to move freely about the small confines of the area both he and his enemy were in, but knowing at the same time that he had to.

Rising slowly to accommodate his cramped joints, he came to his full height. All the recent and not-so-recent injuries shuffled around, adding their voices together until it seemed that each muscle screamed in a unified moan.

He clamped his teeth against any vocalization of pain and took a cautionary step. The Riddler didn't move. It was safe.

Edward found himself wandering the familiar halls of the Clairmont Mansion, except that the sparse, almost negligible, decoration they had today had given way to an opulence he'd never witnessed before.

A tall woman approached him and Edward froze in that peculiar situation that occurs in dreams when the last thing you want to do is remain in place.

"So you think you deserve to find my treasure, do you?" asked Miss Estelle, for there was no debating her identity.

"Why not?"

"What makes you think you are worthy? What would you be willing to do for it?"

"Anything I had to."

"Anything?"

"Yes," Edward heard himself say. This was crazy; he was not exceptionally brave or foolhardy.

"Would you...love me?" Estelle's face loomed close to his and Edward's answer was to grab and kiss her with more passion than he knew he had. After all, he'd kissed much uglier women for less.

Suddenly they were in her bedroom and making love, while tour guides brought by uninterested groups of people to stare, comment and laugh at their tryst. Not that it didn't made any difference to Edward. He kept his attention focused upon the woman beneath him and keeping her there. For some reason, he knew he didn't want her getting the upper hand, so to speak.

He felt and heard her climax and then he did the same. He was about to let go with some phony profession of love when he saw the corpse in his arms and started to scream.

Edward awoke and was half way to the stairs before realizing he'd even moved. He dropped down to one of the steps, hugged himself and rocked slightly as his heart threatened to break its way free from his chest.

His pants were wet and sticky. It was the first time he'd had a wet dream and nightmare in the same breath.

He slowly gained control over his senses again and began to analyze his dream. Obviously, his subconscious was trying to tell him that the only way he was going to find out where her treasure was would be to go to bed with a woman who'd been dead for over a century. That wasn't bloody likely, now was it? Edward thought. Or did it mean that the treasure was hidden beneath her bed? But which one? She slept in a different bedroom every night to keep imagined or possibly real murderers from finding her. Even after that, she still slept with two armed guards at her bedside each night.

He looked down upon the stone mess that littered the floor. It made sense to hide the vault, but it would also have to be somewhat accessible. After all, the financial outlay for this place would be large and constant and Estelle would want access to her fortune without witnesses.

It would have to be fairly well hidden to keep any craftsmen from dipping into it. Because this was the only portion of the cellar that had never been finished, it made sense that the vault would be here...but where? His attention wandered back to the skulls.

As macabre as they were, the skulls were fascinating to Edward. He'd never seen any real ones before and probably wouldn't after this. He rose on still shaky legs and walked over to the first one. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched it, his hand trembling only slightly. It was covered with a thick layer of dust. He brushed it clean with a handkerchief and the resulting bone was smooth and cool beneath his finger tips. It didn't feel the way he'd imagined bone to feel. It felt more like an unglazed ceramic mug.

"Wait a minute," Edward said, aloud. He fumbled around the joint between the skull and the stone that held it. He pushed the skull. Nothing. Then he pulled and a low rumbling of neglected gears shook dust from the plethora of cobwebs above Edward's head.

The wall holding the twelfth bat slid back a few inches, then aside, and eagerly Edward ran to the spot.

He'd almost darted inside, then suddenly he stopped, his mind racing. Would Estelle booby trap the vault? He would have.

He took the pickax by the head and thrust the wooden handle into the black chasm. There was a metallic whine and a slow groan. Edward held the flashlight close to the opening, spotting the bar of metal as it attempted to lash out. Water and age, however, had rusted the mechanism out and made it useless. Edward tapped the coiled spring with the axe and it practically shattered at the touch.

"So much for your grand booby trap, Miss Estelle," he said, still from the safety of the cellar. His flashlight beam picked up something, a skeleton stretched full length, its arm and hand outstretched to Edward. Then he spotted another and another. Obviously he hadn't been the first one to find the treasure, but the first one to exercise enough restraint to keep from rushing into the chamber.

"Hmmm, another perplexity. I wonder if this door swings shut once the thief is inside." Edward looked around for something to brace the door open and settled for three of the loosened bat stones. Hopefully that would be enough to keep it from closing completely.

The stones in place, Edward took an experimental step into the chamber, his body poised for flight back to the door at the slightest indication of noise.

The Batman had been investigating another part of the basement when he'd heard Nigma's cry and headed back, slowly and cautiously. Now he watched Edward slip into the chamber, an eyebrow cocked beneath the cowl. So E. Nigma had cracked the enigma and was going to reap the rewards. All the Batman had to do was to wait for him to drag the riches back to his lair and snatch him red handed. That satisfied the Batman just fine.

A low rumble interrupted his thoughts and he abruptly realized that the heavy stone door was sliding back into place, easily pushing aside the stones that Nigma had laid in its path. If the door closed, it would seal the criminal in and Batman hadn't been here to see how the criminal had triggered the wall.

There was a strangled cry from within and Batman moved; even a criminal deserved a better fate than this. A hand appeared, attempting to stop the progress of the door and Batman added his considerable strength to the task. Whether the Riddler was suddenly surprised by the appearance of the black gloves or knew he was there all along was beside the point at the moment.

The stone door would not be stopped and with one hand, Batman shook the grappling gun loose from his belt, aimed and fired at the nearest point of fulcrum.

The harpoon buried itself into the stone and Batman hooked the other end onto the rough surface. The mechanism whined a protest at the load and Batman bit his bottom lip as he wedged his body into the opening.

"Nigma, get out," he ordered. He glanced out of the side of his mask and the criminal was frozen in place. "Get out now."

"I...I...," the Riddler stared at the still narrowing opening, then back at the treasure. He suddenly took off, running into the back of the small anteroom, snatched something up, just as the Batman felt something snap. He couldn't tell if it was him or the grappling gun. The pressure against his body was threatening to mash him into a wad of bat pulp. It was getting harder to breathe and a soft red haze was beginning to fog his vision.

There was movement under him as the Riddler moved past. That was fine, except now the Batman was stuck, ironically between a rock and a hard place. He had neither the strength nor the space to allow him to escape. Wonderful, just what he needed. He saved the Riddler... now who would save him? Guess it was going to be a bad night after all.

Edward looked back over his shoulder at the Batman. Certainly the man's appearance had been a surprise, but it also answered several questions, like why he felt he was being watched all the time. It hadn't been ghosts, demons or monsters, just a goody-goody bat.

There was something wrong though. Edward had expected the crimefighter to leap free and begin to pursue him. Instead, the man remained wedged into the space and Edward winced as the grappling line sudden broke, increasing the pressure on the Batman.

Despite his hatred for the Batman, he couldn't just let him be squashed like some giant bug, although it would have been pleasant to have watched. Edward dropped the chest he was carrying and went to the man's side.

There was no way Edward could move the wall, not with his back, but he knew how to trigger the door and he hurried to the first skull and pulled it out. For a moment there was no reaction and Edward feared that it might be too late, the mechanism might be jammed or broken. It could be that it had to close first before opening again.

After what seemed to be a millennium, the wall began to retreat and the Batman suddenly dropped into an unconscious heap on the floor, half in and half out of the room.

"Can't leave you like that, old man," Edward said, grabbing an arm and pulling. The Batman remained motionlessly and Edward tried again. "Good God, you weigh a ton. There should be a joke in that, but I can't think of one at the moment."

His back was aching before he finally got the crime fighter clear of the opening and he watched the door started to swing close again. It must have been on some sort of timer that only Estellewas aware of.

Edward stared down at the unconscious Batman, his fingers poised just at the edge of the mask. One tug and the Batman's days of reigning chaos over the criminals of Gotham would be over. So would the greatest enigma that faced the Riddler. It was too sweet to rush.

He snatched his hand away at the sound of a groan and he looked around frantically before realizing it was the Batman who had made the sound. It was too late now and Edward got to his feet, made his way back to the staircase and picked up the chest.

"Just remember, I had a chance and I didn't do it," he said over his shoulder and disappeared up the stairs.

"Just remember, I had a chance and I didn't do it." The words rang in the Batman's ears. Do? Do what? Slowly he began to move, taking stock of injuries along the way. His back was definitely strained, along with just about every other muscle he owned.

He dragged himself to his hands and knees and crawled towards the stairs. That effort nearly killed him and he felt tears trickling down his cheeks as he collapsed against the damp wood. His chest burned and his limbs were spasmodic. It just wasn't fair.

"Life isn't fair, Bruce, and you know that." It was his father's voice ringing in his ears. "You've got a job to do and you won't get it done down here."

"Yes, sir," Batman mumbled, struggling to his feet.

He got to the top of the stairs after what seemed a century and cracked open the door. Pale white light shone in, heralding the dawning of a new day. If he rested for a just a moment, perhaps he'd find the strength to go on. He would find the hiding place where he'd left his street clothes, somehow get to his car and drive back to the Manor. Right, or maybe he'd just sprout wings and fly. Now if the bells clanging overhead would just shut the hell up.

He dropped his head to the floor, waiting for his strength to rally. Already weakened from a lack of food and sleep, there wasn't much left for him to draw upon.

A sound made his head come up. Footsteps. Probably the night watchman or security guard was responding to an alarm that the Riddler had triggered. That would certainly explain the ringing he heard.

The Batman couldn't be seen like this. Appearances were everything for his survival. If the word got out that he was only human and that he could be hurt, it would destroy all that he had built.

Sitting up nearly cost him his tenuous hold on consciousness, but he got upright and felt a little better for it. Now, all he had to do was stand and not pass out; a herculean task if there ever was one. Using a wall as a brace, he struggled up, tasting blood as he bit into his bottom lip.

Rounding the corner was a figure, the beam of its flashlight illuminating the still-dark floor in front of it. The beam came up and caught the Batman full in the face.

"My word, Master Bruce."

_Alfred? Jesus, I must already be unconscious,_ the Batman thought as he slid down the wall and into unconsciousness. If that were the case, then there was nothing he could do about until he woke up. He just hoped the night watchman wasn't the gossipy type.

Edward Nigma sat in his small studio apartment, which seemed much cozier now than before he'd spent three days in a cellar. He sipped his coffee and leaned forward to examine the case he'd carried all the way from the Clairmont Estate. Up to this point, he'd refrained from even cracking the lid, a situation that was facilitated by the rusted hinges and the un-sprung lock.

He found his car right where he'd left it, carefully put the case in the trunk and just as carefully drove home, taking care to not disobey any traffic signals or do anything to arouse suspicion.

Now he set it upon his bed and stared at the rust-encrusted outside of the chest. He ran his hands over the outside before reaching for a screwdriver. The metal, while appearing old and fragile, held firm and Edward worked for nearly an hour before the lock finally gave way to his less-than-gentle administrations. It was worth it though - anything could be inside: gold, jewels, who knew what.

"This is it, my friend," Edward said, rubbing his hands together. "All those lost nights that I could have been spending with my riddles, all the books I gave away. All that backbreaking labor, it all comes down to the glory of this moment." The first whiff of air was enough to turn his stomach and Edward looked down at the moldy mess that greeted him.

The paper, in the humid conditions, had rotted, and Edward felt a swell of fury well up in his chest. After all that work and effort, all he had to show for it was a bunch of moldy paper. It just wasn't fair. Her wealth was in stock, paper stock… crap paper stocks and certificates.

He nearly threw the chest across the floor before coming to his senses. Maybe he could get a few bucks pawning off the chest. At least it wouldn't be a total loss. Edward wrapped the chest in a blanket and placed it in a corner far from him.

Now it was time for a little shut eye. After all he'd earned it, he'd even saved the Batman's life. Not something that he'd brag about to fellow criminals, but surely that would be something that he could exploit at a later date.

He wasn't even conscious of nodding off before he found himself walking down a familiar corridor and staring in at a familiar bedroom, its opulence now tarnished by age and disuse. He heard a voice behind him

"Remember, you promised." The voice was soft, strangely hollow sounding and Edward turned.

Standing there, in an advance state of decay was Miss Estelle. Her body was swathed in a rotted wedding dress and the bouquet of dead flowers she held in the skeletal hand dribbling flower petals onto the floor. She reached out to him "You wanted my treasure and I gave it to you. You promised me your love and I will have it. Whenever you close your eyes, I will be waiting for you… my love."

Edward came awake with a start and he started to laugh, then the laugh caught in his throat. Littering the bed and the floor were flower petals. But he was alone, blessedly alone. Wasn't he? Her words came back to him as slowly and quietly, he started to whimper.

Bruce Wayne woke up, blinking at the bright light in one eye. He pushed it away or tried to, but his limbs felt like Jell-O. They refused to obey his commands.

"Lie still, Bruce, or you'll hurt yourself... more than you already have." Leslie Thompkins said, holding him down with one gentle but firm hand as she flicked the light into the other eye. "At least there is no sign of head trauma… except for the usual. Do you feel like telling us just what you were trying to accomplish?"

"I'm home?" Bruce asked, becoming aware of the familiar trappings of his bedroom.

"Obviously."

"How…?"

"Thank your lucky stars that Alfred went looking for you, although why he continues to is beyond me. You obviously have a death wish."

Bruce tried to sit up again and the attempt drew a moan from him.

"I said to lie still," Thompkins ordered. "Or do I pump you so full of painkillers that you won't have any choice?"

"No, no, you win," Bruce murmured. After all, she'd be gone in a few minutes and he would then do as he pleased. "How long...?"

The doctor ignored his question. "You were half dead when Alfred found you. Would you like to tell me what happened?"

"Not really." He smiled weakly at the older woman, a gesture that turned into a wince as she got up from the bed, jostling it as she did. "What's the prognosis?"

"Rest, Bruce, complete and total bed rest for at least a week, do you understand me?"

"Sure, Leslie, whatever you say." He'd give himself another day, maybe. It depended upon what the criminals did. If they knew he was down and out of the picture, that would be very bad for Gotham.

Then he tried to shift a leg and decided he might go as far as two days. He couldn't very well lie abed while the Riddler was pillaging the Clairmont Mansion. He had no doubt that whatever the Riddler pulled from that room was the secret to the fortune, if not the fortune itself.

"I'm serious, Bruce. You look like you got caught in a giant vice."

"I was. Once an over-achiever, always an over-achiever."

"You can joke if you want to, Bruce, but I think this has gone well beyond the realm of common sense. I'm serious when I recommend some psychiatric counseling."

"I'll certainly agree with that if it would do any good, but we both know I'm too far gone for that," Bruce said, indicating the end of the conversation by closing his eyes. "You said so yourself on a number of occasions."

He tried to decide whether it hurt more to move or lie still as he listened to Leslie leave the room and someone else enter. It was someone whose step was softer, more measured and one that he knew very well.

"Master Bruce?"

He opened his eyes and smiled up at his butler. "Yes, Alfred, what can I do for you?"

"You gave me quite a scare, sir."

"Me too, old friend, thank you. I have to get out of here, Alfred. The Riddler has found the Clairmont fortune and there's no telling what he's up to."

"Not much I would venture," Alfred said, holding up a paper for his employer to read it.

"Riddler apprehended for attempted theft," Wayne read the 40 point headline out loud. He squinted to make out the finer newsprint, a nearly impossible task without his glasses. Instead, he smiled slyly at his butler, "And how did this come about?"

"A person of exceptional character, and conscience, merely made an anonymous call to the police commissioner and told him that he had witnessed someone exiting the Clairmont Mansion with what he believed to be stolen goods. By the time, the police called upon Mr. Nigma at his hovel, they found him in a state of extreme agitation. One television reporter even said that Mr. Nigma appeared to be frightened out of his mind."

"Miss Mathes, I'll bet. She's still sniffing around for anything that will let her recapture her former glory. I wonder what happened..."

"One might do well to remember that Miss Estelle's ancestors were as practiced in medicine as yours. It would have only stood to reason that not only might she employ physical traps, but chemical ones as well. You shall have to ask him, sir, although I suspect it will be quite some time before he's permitted to have any visitor of a visage as dark as yours."

Bruce smiled. "Somehow you always know just what to say to make me feel better, Alfred."

"I would be disbarred from the butler's league if it was any other way, Master Bruce. Would you care for some lunch?"

"Please, and my glasses."

"On the table beside you, sir," Alfred said, smiling slightly.

"Oh, right, thank you," Bruce said. "And would you open the curtains for me. I have a feeling that it's a beautiful day outside."

The butler complied, the ease of his movement belying the weight of the heavy ceiling-to-floor curtains. Outside, night was encroaching upon the manor, dark clouds racing across the face of the moon that was inching its way past the trees.

"See?" Bruce said, smiling as the trees bowed down before the wind. "What did I tell you? It's a beautiful day in my neighborhood."


End file.
